


Like Quills Upon the Fretful Porpentine

by FoxRafer



Category: Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-07-10
Updated: 2009-07-10
Packaged: 2017-10-22 17:08:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/240412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FoxRafer/pseuds/FoxRafer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ghost stories can make your hair stand on end.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like Quills Upon the Fretful Porpentine

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the "hair" challenge at [**tripledogdare**](http://tripledogdare.livejournal.com/). Title stolen from Shakespeare (Hamlet to be precise) because I'm crap with titles. I've given Bob's cat a name; if there was a name mentioned in the book please let me know and I'll correct it.

Bob rushed across the courtyard, the building storm fighting him every step of the way. The rain had just started to fall, large heavy drops flicking sideways in the wind, as he reached the stable doors. As he slid inside and secured the latch, Bob let out a quiet sigh. It would be warmer in the inn, that was certain, and Nob would likely sneak him a mug of something to warm him straight down to his toes. But the night promised to be turbulent, thunder and lightning with a fierce gale, and his presence in the barn would help calm horse and pony alike. Besides, he preferred the rough serenity of the stable. The smell of hay and oats, the swish of horse's tails and occasional stamp of feet, low knickers of greeting, even the muck in the stalls: all were familiar and comforting.

He hung the lantern on a hook on a nearby post and slightly increased the flame, letting shadows loose down the alley. Parsley the cat greeted him from her perch in the tack room, tucked in too tight in her cozy spot to bother coming out to say hello. Bob smiled as he pulled his collar up a little further, still slightly chilled from his trip across the yard. He stuck his hands deep in his pockets and began to slowly walk down the aisle. The animals were safely bedded for the night, stray bits of equine chatter cutting through the whistle of the wind.

All seemed as it should be, all that is except the small chestnut mare at the end of the row, her owner an odd reedy man that Bob could tell Butterbur didn't trust in the least. That's why the horse was in one of the back stalls, making it harder for the bounder to sneak out in the middle of the night without settling his bill. His horse, however, was an even-tempered beauty and Bob had taken to her right away. But now she was clearly disturbed and he suspected it wasn't at all related to the storm.

Bob grabbed the lantern and quickly walked down the alley. He slid the stall door open, a soft scrape against the rails that seemed to pacify the horse a little as she sensed his presence. He brushed his hand along her flank as he walked in, gently moving her closer to the wall so he could see the ground in front of her. Two sets of eyes peered up at him from the corner.

"Mosco and Hal. I should have known."

"We're sorry, Bob," the boys cried as they hurried out of the stall.

"Just stand there and be quiet," Bob admonished, as he laid his head against the mare's neck and stroked the bridge of her nose. He felt the last of her disquiet ease then stepped out and closed the door.

The boys were slouched together just outside the stall, eyes downcast, skittering glances along the floor. Bob did his best not to laugh as he schooled his features into a stern expression.

"Ok, who's first?"

Mosco's hobbit stature put him nearly four inches shorter than Hal, but being a year older he stepped up and took the lead.

"Mrs. Whistletree chased us away from her husband's workshop so we took two of her sticky buns and we were going to go behind the potters to eat them but then Old Roper came by and we didn't want him to see us so we ran in here but then we got to talking and lost track of time and the storm started and when we heard you come in we ran back here to hide and we didn't mean to frighten the horse." Mosco blurted his words in one long breathless rush and Bob felt his façade begin to crack.

"Yeah, we didn't mean to cause any trouble, we promise," Hal piped in.

"Well," Bob smiled, giving up his fight to look harsh, "I suppose no harms done." He started walking back toward the front of the stable, the two boys close behind. "You better stay here until this storm dies down a little. Besides, I wouldn't want you to become the next victim of the Phantom of Bree-hill." He hung the lantern on the hook once more and sat down on the long bench outside the feed room.

The boys looked at each other and then back at Bob. "The what?" Hal asked.

"You've never heard of the Phantom of Bree-hill?" Bob asked, his face a mask of surprise.

"There's no such thing as ghosts," Mosco averred, crossing his arms defiantly.

"Oh yes? Well then, I'm sure you'll be fine. Off you go now." Bob pulled out his pocket knife and the scrap of wood he'd been whittling for nigh on a week and settled back against the wall. Mosco and Hal looked at each other, at the door, back at Bob, then settled down on the ground in front of him.

"If it's real, why hasn't anyone told us about it?" Hal challenged.

"I suspect your folks were trying to keep you from having nightmares and the like. Besides, they probably hoped you'd be too old by the time it came back down the Greenway."

"You said it was in Bree?"

"It awoke here and this is where it prefers to feed. But every few years it has to hunt elsewhere, find other villages where the pickings aren't so spare. But you don't believe in ghosts anyway so ..."

"But where did it come from?" "And what do you mean by feed?" The boys spoke quickly, almost in unison, and Bob had to focus on his knife work to keep himself from laughing.

"No one is really sure how it came to be. Some believe it's the spirit of a Beorning ancestor who had made his home deep in Chetwood, far north of his people. Others say he was just an ordinary man who in life had an insatiable taste for flesh and blood. The only thing anyone knows for sure is that it was first seen on a stormy night, not unlike this evening, prowling between the houses on the hill, a dark figure that seemed not quite solid. The next morning a little boy just around your age was missing and was never seen again. For more than a month the people of Bree lived in fear as every few days another child disappeared, always in the middle of an unexpected storm and always after the shadowy figure had been seen creeping along the alleyways."

Bob looked up from his carving into two sets of eyes, large and round and completely enthralled. He made a great show of putting the wood back in his waistcoat, of cleaning his knife before snapping it closed and slipping it into his trouser pocket before he continued. Bob spun his tale as the wind sent otherworldly creaks and moans through the barn, gave life to the dreaded spectre as the rain punctuated each chilling act with a deafening rhythm on the roof.

Suddenly the barn doors slid open with a flash of light, the screech and bang along the rails like a clap of thunder. A hooded figure stood in the doorway, faceless in the gloom, he and his horse a black silhouette against the courtyard outside. Mosco and Hal leapt to their feet and ran out the tack room door into the night, screaming as they went, not stopping until they'd reached their homes.

Bob stood and slowly approached the newcomer who had moved in out of the rain. He was dressed like those odd weather-beaten strangers that sometimes stayed at the inn, the rangers that lived out in the wild, but there was something familiar about him. Bob took the horse's bridle as the man turned to close the door.

"I didn't mean to frighten your two young friends," he said quietly, turning back to walk toward Bob. "But I was hoping you would look after my horse for a day or two."

He removed his hood and now stood clearly in the flickering light.

"Strider," Bob exclaimed. He liked this ranger and was glad to seem him well, but his presence always meant something unpleasant was afoot near Bree. Whenever he was in town Bob was filled with a sickening dread.

"It's nice to be remembered. How are you?"

"Fine, fine." Bob cleared his throat, finally collecting himself. "The same arrangement we came to before?"

"If that still suits you. I wouldn't want you to run afoul of Old Butterbur."

"He rarely comes in here, and even if he does he'd assume the horse belonged to a guest. No, it's no trouble at all."

"What about the two boys? They're bound to tell someone a stranger was at the barn."

Bob laughed then, a full and hearty sound that made the ranger smile. "No need to worry about those two rascals. They think they've seen a ghost."


End file.
